Only a Mother's Love
by Servant of Anubis
Summary: How did the greatest and possibly the most ruthless thief in all of the demon world come to care for his human mother? Oneshot 'Rest assured that when I say you have no idea how frustrating that is, I truly mean it.'


What exactly went through Yoko's mind when Shiori sacrificed her well-being to protect him? How did the greatest and possibly the most ruthless thief in all of the demon world come to care for his human mother?

This is my guess.

--

Was I afraid of death when I fled my dying body and took refuge in the yet unborn child of a human mother? I don't think I was. Some people are surprised, even disgusted to hear of my actions.

Yes, I did steal the still uninhabited body meant for a human soul. It wasn't my most brilliant theft, but it was daring simply in that few demons would have the audacity to do so. Do I regret what I did? No, I do not regret surviving, doing what I must to live. I do, however, wonder if I couldn't have chosen a better target.

I slumbered. I don't recall being in the womb; in fact, I don't recall being born. I suppose there is some sort of cosmic law that prevents me from remembering. I remember my second childhood though, from a very young age. 'Shuichi' learned to walk early, and speech also came quickly.

Imagine for a moment that you suddenly occupied the body of an eighteen month old: you cannot walk, you cannot speak, and you are completely and utterly dependent on others for your survival. Now imagine that you still possessed all present mental cognitions and reasoning abilities. Rest assured that when I say you have no idea how frustrating that is, I truly mean it.

I trained, I adapted, I hid behind the façade of Shuichi and learned the rules of Japanese life. In fact, I became the perfect son. I was always well-behaved (from what others saw), I was respectful, I always did well in school. I made certain that no one ever had anything to complain about. There were a few minor flaws in my act however. Shuichi didn't cry. Shuichi didn't make friends, preferring to play by himself, although he had a few acquaintances. He was always a distant child; he called his 'mother' by her given name, Shiori, and submitted to hugs with a neutral air, standing still and stiff as her arms wrapped around him, never hugging back.

It was annoying and restricting, but I am patient and cunning and so dealt with it. I only needed to hold out until I turned ten; by then my strength would have returned enough that I could leave. I knew I could vanish unnoticed, without a trace, and no one would find me. Shuichi Minamino would become just one more missing child, presumed dead.

But something went wrong with my plan. I miscalculated. I, Yoko Kurama, the greatest thief in all of Makai, overlooked one very important detail.

I hadn't counted on caring.

It was a stupid thing, really. Shuichi was four (or five, I can't quite recall; it seemed so unimportant at the time). I was helping Shiori put away dishes, climbing up a step stool to reach the higher shelves. I stretched forward, silently cursing this body's shortness, and leaned slightly over the counter, a stack of plates in my hands. The stool was unsteady; it teetered forward suddenly, just enough of a shift that I, in this clumsy, still growing body, lost balance. The plates hit the ground and shattered as my hands flailed, grasping thin air in a vain attempt to catch myself.

Shiori caught me. It was her delicate human skin that was ripped to ribbons by the broken china. I suffered only a handful of cuts on my shoulder blades, but the back of her hands, lower arms, and elbows were badly sliced.

I was floored, literally and figuratively. She threw away her safety without a second thought to protect me. Even as I sat there, staring dumbly at the blood running down her arms in little rivulets, she was more concerned about my health than her own. What stupidity was this? What sane individual would do something like that? Such an occurrence would never happen in Makai, especially between mother and offspring. Perhaps humans really were daft. But those were the complaints of my rational mind, and it was unusually quiet right now. I recovered from my shock quickly and ran for the first aid kit, truly ran, forcing my body to a speed that it shouldn't have been capable of at that time. I called an ambulance and rode in the back with the woman who called herself my mother. She needed stitches, a small transfusion.

And during her stay in the hospital (it wasn't long, but it seemed that way), I was concerned; no, I was outright worried. I felt guilty, I felt like I had hurt her. My rational mind argued angrily against these illogical thoughts, but they persisted.

She recovered. Life went on. But for those next few weeks, I couldn't shake the odd feelings. I was quieter than usual, I was, dare I ever say this, humble; I found I could barely look at her. She noticed; she became worried. I felt worse.

One night about a month after the incident, after the stitches were gone and the wounds had healed (much slower than mine, but the doctors chalked it up to a child's endurance), I caught sight of her scars during a bath. To my confusion and horror, I burst into great shuddering sobs. She pulled me into a hug and held me, softly stroking my hair as I choked out 'I'm sorry's and 'I didn't mean to's, all the while wondering what the hell was wrong with me. Then she quieted me and gently explained that it wasn't my fault; I was her precious boy and she loved me, would do anything for me.

I cried harder.

Eventually I calmed down and was tucked into bed, a kiss planted on my forehead that made me cringe; I didn't miss the flash of hurt across Shiori's face. In the solitude of my room, for the first time in my life I found myself in abject misery, full of a sudden self-loathing. I was not this woman's child. I was a demon that stole her son's body, who fed off her for months before being born. I was lying to her daily, accepting gifts and praise and shelter and love that she thought she was giving to her son. And she had no idea! She probably wondered why her son never return her affection, was always so cold to her, even though she tried her best. I have never felt so guilty, so horrible about lying.

I was not her son. She would never know her son. But I could pretend. I seized the idea. What had this revelation changed? Nothing, no one but me. I would be her perfect son, a real perfect son, not this false version I had been trying for. I would give her everything she ever wanted from a child. This would be my apology, my gift in thanks for the sacrifices she made, and would make, in raising a child. Guilt surged anew as I realized how much my detachment must have hurt her.

She could never know what I truly was; I would make certain she never found out. Imagine the damage that knowledge would do to her, to learn that her 'son' was, by human standards, a monster. It wouldn't be hard when I was a child, but I would have to be careful when I got older.

I began to fully embrace my role as Shuichi; I began to call her okaa-san, the word tasting odd on my tongue. A tinge of betrayal colored my mind, especially when she cried for happiness at hearing the name. But I tried. I slowly, cautiously started to return her hugs, warily wrapping my arms lightly around her, then, gradually hugging her properly. I spoke to her more often, keeping up my guise as a child.

And I noticed something odd happening. Little by little, step by step, I found I no longer needed to make an effort to call her okaa-san, or hug back, or talk with her. I discovered that I eagerly showed her good grades and positively glowed when she praised me. I realized that I wasn't acting anymore.

I had grown addicted to the unconditional love that only a mother could give.

--

Readers who don't review make me sad. Really sad.


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